The Memory of Nothing
by Lilliana Greenleaf
Summary: The adventures of a man with no memory of who he is, other than a woman's face and a white tree. His discovery of the truth could bring about the end of times, or he might end up saving them all. (M for swearing and gore)
1. Chapter 1

Seagulls were the first sound I heard, followed by the gentle crash of waves on the beach, and the soft sound of crabs scuttling through the sand. The sun was hot, and I could feel the bridge of my nose burning. It didn't hurt yet, but it would soon enough. I had to get up, I had to move out of the unforviging sun.

Heavy footsteps reached my ears, muffled by the sand. I began to shift, not daring to open my eyes just yet. I was hurt, that much I knew. I couldn't remember how, why, or where I was, but I knew that something bad had happened. "Hey, you're alive!" The voice was close, and soon enough I felt a hand on my chest. A shadow fell over my face, and I looked up to see a young man, a soldier, kneeling over me. "Are you alright?" The language wasn't my own, but I knew it well enough. "No," my throat was dry and my tongue swollen. I could taste salt. "You really took a beating," the man commented as he held a water skin to my lips. I drank gratefully and sat up, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. "Thank you, friend," I felt woozy at first. "Here," the man took something out of the pocket of his leather pants. He had chainmail on his upper body. A soldier then.

He pressed a bandage to the back of my head. "You're not bleeding anymore. I think you'll be alright," he stated after a few minutes, wrapping a clean bandage around my head. "What's your name, stranger?" I opened my mouth, then paused. "I... I don't remember." I scowled, trying desperately to remember the most fundamental of facts. What was my name?

A fragment of a memory came to me. A woman with soft brown curls, an elven woman. "Bran..." I repeated what she said, though it felt incomplete. It would do for now. "Bran. That's all I can remember." I looked over at the man, getting a better look at his features. He looked exhausted, and beaten. He had a bruise on his cheek and his chainmail had tears in it. He helped me to my feet, "well, Bran, got any fighting experience?" I shrugged, I didn't remember. He looked me over, "by the looks of your muscles, and the leather armour you're wearing, you certainly do. Some of the wreckage from your ship washed up. Maybe we can find something."

I helped him look. All I could find were two daggers that fit comfortably in my hand. It would have to be enough. Once that was accomplished, I followed the soldier up to a small camp. These men were on the brink of exhaustion, bandaged and rebandaged until they were barely held together. The captain was pacing back and forth, muttering. I made my way over to him, feeling pity for these soldiers, and asked what I could do to help. The captain looked hopeless, but he motioned to a path. "The archers on the other side of that field are quickly running out of arrows. If you could retrieve some from the bodies, it could possibly turn this whole thing around." It was clear he didn't think it was possible; the battlefield was riddled with the undead.

I made my way onto the battlefield. I might not have remembered anything, but my body certainly did. I seemed to be an expert fighter, what would be classified as a rogue. Backstabbing and trickster games were my forte. Gathering the arrows that the archers needed was a breeze, and the grateful looks on their faces when I delivered them made it all worth it.

They sent me towards the wall around the city of Neverwinter, fighting my way through various hordes of zombies. At some point, I met Private Wilfred, who was absolutely beside himself, ready to fight. "We have to go across Sleeping Dragon Bridge, the city needs us!" He grabbed my shoulders. I took a step back, "alright, let's go while there's a lull." We raced up to the bridge, where the few soldiers that were left fighting were dropping like flies.

We fought our way through the undead. I made sure that Wilfred survived the encounter. We couldn't save the soldiers on the bridge, but we certainly avenged them. I looked up from another corpse to see Wilfred rushing at the one who had started it all, the woman commanding the dead. He was blown aside instantly, hitting the stone wall hard. I jerked my blades from a corpse and hurried in his direction, only to be stopped by a giant being of the undead.

Killing him was no trouble.

"Wilfred," I knelt beside him, listening to his last words. I held his hand during his dying breath and I realized, this was what I was meant to do. I was meant to kill, so others could live. How ironic.


	2. Chapter 2

The creaking of the ancient hinges broke the silence in the old cathedral. The warlocks gathered around a magical flame looked up, easily startled. On the other end, closing one of the once-grand doors behind him, was the one they had been afraid of. "Gentlemen," the man called out, his voice echoing around the massive structure. "Ladies," his footsteps got closer and closer, and they knew, so did their deaths. "Pact-breakers," they could see him now, a man shrouded in black with a grand purple cloak. Half of his face was covered in a black tattoo with three blank lines over his eye resembling claw marks. Three black lines over his other eye matched them.

"I've come to collect your debt." Just like that, with a snap of his fingers, they were consumed in acid. As their souls left their bodies, he captured them, drawing them to his silver pactblade with a purple-black gemstone. The stone glowed mometarily, then was still. There were no screams, no struggle, no sign of the warlocks. The magical flame flickered out.

"Well, Lavanya," the man called out, and a massive black owl came gliding down from the rafters to rest on his shoulder, her great talons digging into the fabric of the cloak, yet leaving no tear. The man stroked her feathers briefly. "Let's head back. Our business here is finished." He stepped into a beam of light coming through a hole in the roof and his platinum hair seemed to glow. He took a moment to glance at the belongings of the warlocks, then deciding nothing was worthwhile, headed out of the cathedral. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

* * *

I was overwhelmed. There I was, no memory of myself, or of anything really, just come in from a battle which I should have had no part of, after having watched a man murdered, standing in front of a massive knight who was looking down at me expectantly. He had just introduced himself as Sergeant Knox, and was clearly expecting my name as well. "Bran," I told him. "That's all I can remember." "Well Bran," he extended his hand to me. "Thank you for your help, and welcome to Neverwinter. You're here in the capital, Protector's Enclave." I shook his hand, which seemed to swallow mine.

"Since you don't remember why you came here," he got right down to business, "perhaps you wouldn't mind helping us with another matter. Of course, compensation will be in order, but it's no small task. Are you up for it?" I nodded, "why not?" At least it was something to focus on while I tried to figure out who I was.

Sergeant Knox began to explain the task. "With all the kerfuffle around here, there is concern that the Nashers, a group of rebels seeking to overthrow Lord Neverember, might have broken into the vaults to take the crown of Neverwinter. Go down and make sure it's still there, but be wary, those laid to rest there are not very good at resting." I opened my mouth to speak, but just then, a man on a horse ran right into me.

From the ground, all I could see was a massive black horse rearing up over me. When it came back down, it's giant feathered hooves barely missing my feet, I saw the man riding it. He looked just as startled as I was. He dismounted, making no move to help me to my feet. "Knox, who is this?" His voice was like velvet. I pulled myself to my feet. Sergeant Knox cleared his throat, "Alaric, this is Bran. Bran, this is Alaric Feardorcha, a skilled warlock who works for a price. He's going to go with you down into the vaults." Alaric held out his hand, "a pleasure." There was no smile on his face, nor on mine. I shook his hand, brushing myself off. He wore black, but what caught my eye was his fine purple cloak, and the strange tattoo covering half his face and his right eye. His eyes were an unusual shade of bright purple. It was almost unnatural.

"Well, we'd best be off then." He turned to Knox, "will you see Jericho to the stables and see Lavanya fed?" I noticed the massive black owl perching on the saddle. "Of course." I wasn't paying attention to them at that point. The owl, Lavanya, turned her golden gaze on me. She spread her massive wings and let out a hoot, then flapped a few times. Before I knew it, she had landed on my head. I winced as her talons dug into my scalp.

Alaric let out a laugh. The delighted expression seemed foreign on his face. "She likes you. Come on now, pretty lady," he held out his arm and she landed on it, nipping at his face gently. I rubbed my head, hoping I wasn't bleeding again.

Soon enough, we found ourselves at the entrance to the vaults. I drew my blades, while Alaric drew a tool unlike any I'd ever seen. It seemed to be a massive ornate silver dagger with a dark purple gem in the center. "What is that," I asked. "A pactblade, are you daft?" Alaric raised an eyebrow. I looked away, embarrassed, "I've never seen one before." Alaric rolled his eyes, "well that's good. If you ever do see one of these, run." I looked back at him, "why?" He began walking. "Because the power that comes with these is unmatched."

Neither of us knew how wrong he was.


End file.
